Fleeting snippets of events, memories, have flashed through my mind of late. Most of these memories make me smile, or remind me of the love I have for the people who are important in my life.

I wonder about the role memory plays in constructing who and what we are. Various members of a family experience the same event differently. When asked to recall an event, they may have widely dissimilar versions to relate.

One memory that has played in my mind of late was many years ago when I was in grade school.  I was walking to school or church with my brother. It had snowed (we lived in Buffalo, New York and it was winter), and there were soft, light flurries falling around us. The sunlight glimmered off the snow, catching the ice crystals, making them shine like diamonds. My brother wanted to pretend that we were walking through a diamond mine. I still can recall how magical this mundane walk seemed at the time.

When we were kids, my Dad would take all eight of us to the zoo (and other locations) for the day during his summer vacation.  My Mom would pack a picnic lunch and off we’d go with just Dad—leaving poor (or so I thought) Mom home alone! I always felt a little sorry for my Mon until I became an adult and realized how precious those few “days off” must have been to her.

My Dad especially liked to watch the ducks at the zoo. He would try to get us to sit on the concrete bench that was built around the duck pond for what seemed like forever. It probably was to rest his chronically aching back. We, of course, were anxious to go, go, go!  Eventually, the older kids would take some of the younger ones off to see the rest of the zoo while Dad took a breather.

I remember another field trip to Niagara Falls, a short ride from Buffalo. We had a VW bus (remember those?)  Dad, my sister, the three little kids in the family, and I were on this trip. I don’t recall if any of the older kids were along—I was already in high school when we took this excursion.

The rain came down in sheets, making walking around the “Falls” and eating a picnic lunch a little dicey, to use one of Dad’s words. We ended up having our picnic in the fogged-up car, which sounds a like more fun than it was. I had to pass out sandwiches and drinks from the front seat all the way to the back of the VW bus. I felt like a contortionist trying to accomplish that task.

These memories are a part of the history I share with my family. There are many more, of course.

And, as time goes on, they seem to become even more precious.